


Disillusionment

by Cortesia



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex Trafficking, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cortesia/pseuds/Cortesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is shit, and Eggsy can't feel much of anything anymore. A familiar face brings with it some much needed retrospect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Post V-Day, the world descends into anarchy for a time. Governments stop running (or only run in secret), the militaries of the world become sort of coalition militias with like-minded allies who only protect their own interests (America turns into martial law fuckery that makes a zombie outbreak look like a fine summer’s day). And in Europe, an already-active underground sex and domestic slavery ring takes off. People who were disoriented or lost, or amnesiac, or just otherwise slipped through the chasm-wide cracks in the system have become a commodity. And Kingsman’s focus, besides stabilizing the world’s governments, is to try and stop this ring.  
  
  
It’s Eggsy who gets tasked with this as his first (and possibly final) sanctioned op. The remaining Kingsmen couldn’t decide if he was a full agent or not, given the failure of the test, but stopping of V-Day. So ever-practical Percival suggested a secondary test. After all, he reasoned, James had to undergo one too after Lee died. You don’t just get added to the mix if you win your spot by the deaths of the other candidates. You still have to prove yourself capable. So Eggsy gets told “fix this” and handed a file the size of Birmingham that they’ve been compiling about the slave trade.

 

And thus Eggsy Unwin disappears and emerges as Gareth DeVere, war profiteer and only son and heir of a quietly powerful billionaire lost in the wake of V-Day. He find the right connections and lets it be known that though he’s making more money than he knows what to do with, once the governments of the world get back top and running, they’ll start looking at people with money to see if they’re dirty. So he wants a commodity to run his investments through that’s not particularly detectable, and is transient enough that his investments won’t be noticed. And the flesh trade is exactly what he needs. Eastern Europe fared much better during V-Day than other parts of the world, largely due to an unstable cell-phone infrastructure that was quickly destroyed by rioting, and because the previous hundred years’ worth of war and strife had taught her peoples to stay sharp and observant. It had taught them to hide and survive. So that’s where Eggsy and his new partners set up shop. Vilnius becomes Gareth DeVere’s home, the lovely architecture and city lights reminding him at once and not at all of London.

 

So he goes undercover, so deeply that he forgets his own name sometimes when he’s waking up. He fucks his way through the whores that are brought to him at parties with these slumlords putting on airs, silently losing pieces of himself with each man or woman that gets sent to him with dull eyes and a collar about their necks. It doesn’t take much to arouse him at first; he’s young and these men and women are beautiful, in their own ways. Some nights he finds himself enjoying it, and though morning’s light bring the retching and shame settling over his shoulders like a mantle, Eggsy can’t help but feel the pleasure keenly. Too many bear marks of recent abuse, though the worst are the ones who were in no fit state after V-Day, the ones missing limbs, or with scars, or those who flinch for reasons Eggsy knows all too well. His conscience, once clear and loudly divergent from the small voice of Gareth DeVere worming its way into Eggsy’s mind, begins to sound not unlike Dean in his bad moments, or Roxy in the good. Sometimes, but only rarely, does it sound like Harry. The only ones he won’t touch are the children, though the first time he is offered a girl just a few years older than his own sweet Daisy, he buys her collar outright, and “sends her to his estate.” Merlin’s not entirely sure what to do with a broken little girl from what he thinks is Turkey, but  they find a place for her at HQ. After that Eggsy makes it clear to his partners that he doesn’t want children. He stocks up on aftermarket blues, and takes them with half a bottle of whatever rotgut he can find to keep the charade going for as long as necessary.

 

He’s becoming obscenely wealthy (Gareth is, not you Eggsy, never you, you fucking chav), trading people. He is also meticulous at his record-keeping in a way that would have made his primary and secondary school teachers weep. Every transaction is recorded. Every name he can find is listed. He knows he’s being watched, just as expected. He knows that his partners, slimy men with an eye for opportunity (just like Dean -  _too much like Dean_ ) aren’t as smart as they’d like to pretend to be. And Eggsy knows it's only a matter of time before he has this wrapped up in a neat little package. But he has to figure something out for the merchandise. And God how he hates himself, that he’s slipped so far into the role he must play, that he thinks of them as merchandise.

 

He has coordinated the day. Merlin will be sending two other Kingsman agents and a bevy of field agents taken from MI5 and 6. They will rend this ring into nothing, and they will take these people as far from this place as they can. Governments around the world are coming back online slowly, and the UN and EU have begun holding preliminary sessions again. He knows it’s now or never, and so do his partners. They start talking of moving the merchandise to Asia, where the sex trade has always been so entrenched that it’s impossible to prise out. He agrees, because Gareth DeVere would agree. And his partners tell him they have something special for him. 

 

 _“And this one’s a fighter, and a Brit too. Some upper crust but penniless cockslut who doesn’t quite yet know his new place in the world. Good mouth though,”_  they say. And Eggsy smirks coldly and says that it’s about time he had some real fun, because that’s what Gareth DeVere would say.

 

Eggsy takes the steps at a slow but steady pace to his apartment. And though he hates what’s left of himself, he’s already half-hard in his suit. (Off the peg, not bespoke; it fits ill and Harry would- No. He never lets himself think on that. never that. Too much pain there. Best left locked away, yes.) The doors are still locked as is customary, and the doorman who is in on the ring’s security, beckons him. It is not unusual for him to have to collect his presents, what with Gareth DeVere’s insistence on paranoid security (just like dear old dad).

 

And so Gareth DeVere strolls casually to meet the man that Eggsy Unwin wants to punch in the mouth for slaking his filthy lust with a dead-eyed girl barely out of her adolescence, and asks after his “package.”  
  
  
“Delivery’s here, sir. Just need to give you the keys. Bit feral, this one. Best keep him gagged.” The beast of a man turns to collect a set of innocuous keys, and leads Eggsy to a room that he think might have once been a supply closet, but is now a holding pen for the used. He fiddles with the keys, bumbling like the idiot he is, and finally, eternally slow, unlocks and opens to door. And Eggsy crashes back into himself and cannot stop the sudden but quiet inhalation at the sight of Charlie-fucking-Hesketh, bruised but defiant, bound but fighting at his feet. Charlie, thank God, recognizes Eggsy, and reacts as though he has never met the suited man, despite the slight flaring of his nostrils.

 

“Excellent, my man. Just excellent,” says Gareth DeVere, slapping the doorman on his meaty shoulder. “Send him for a scrubbing and then on up to the rooms. I’ll dine there prior.”  
  
  
  
“Of course, Mr. DeVere. Want us to open him up for you sir? Got a few boys downstairs who’d like to see what it takes to make this one mewl.”

 

“Not tonight, I think. I want to break him… personally.” Sometimes Eggsy hates Gareth DeVere.

 

Eggsy’s steak is ash in his mouth, and he cannot eat more than a bite or two before his stomach rebels. So he switches to water, knowing that getting drunk at this juncture (though a wonderful thought) is ill-advised. The op goes off tomorrow, and he has an element that he never considered on its way up to his rooms. And as if summoned by Eggsy’s glowering thoughts, Charlie is unceremoniously thrust into Gareth DeVere’s suite, nude and still slightly steaming and pink from what looks like his first decent shower in weeks.

 

“What’s your name, boy?” Gareth DeVere does not know Charlie Hesketh.

 

“It’s Eggy, you piece of shit slaver.”

 

Though Eggsy’s back is turned to Charlie, looking out one of the banks of windows into the city, he cannot help but smile at the small dig his former comrade gets in. His fingers trace words onto the glass, unseen.

 

“Well then,  _Eggy,_  I’d like to suggest that you do what it was you were sent here to do without complaint. But since we both know that’s unlikely to happen, I suggest you take a few moments to muse on your situation before trying to fight back. Hush now, pet.” He hears Charlie scoff behind him, and finally turns. He raises a single finger to his lips and cocks an eyebrow at the man before him. 

 

Gareth DeVere isn’t necessarily a cruel man, he’s far too much Eggsy for that to be the case, but tonight seems to be the exception. He strides forward, and roughly grasps the diminished man in front of him, and roughly shoves him against the glass of the window. He nips at Charlie’s ear, and turns the man’s face to press against the window cheek-first. Charlie’s breath ghosts across the surface, scattered and reedy (broken or bruised ribs, Eggsy, obvious), and Eggsy can’t help but rock just the slightest bit into Charlie’s still lush ass, even as he feels the heart beating in very real fear beneath his hands. He can tell when Charlie sees the Kingsman code written in skin’s oil on the glass, making just a few choice words, but important ones.

 

_Tomorrow. Stay with me. Eyes everywhere._

While Charlie is reading, Gareth DeVere is unbuckling his trousers for both the sight and the sound. While Charlie is panting against the glass, Gareth DeVere has one hand holding the poor man’s wrists above his hand, and the other palming his hips into a better position. While Charlie is faking the sounds of pleasurable pain (but not faking the occasional moan as Eggsy’s hand touches his own hard length), Eggsy Unwin is rubbing with all the practiced maneuvers of a whore against him, trying not to further hurt the man beneath his hands, but needing to make it look real for his partners’ poorly concealed surveillance. Gareth DeVere pulls back from the debauched man in front of him and spends across his reddened ass, even as the abused thing dirties the glass he is leaned against. Eggsy Unwin lays the briefest of kisses against the man’s nape as he feels the warmth of Charlie’s come on his palm, and the fingers he’s entwined with his own unconsciously (poor form, Eggsy. They’ll see you getting gentle with this one and use him against you) squeeze just a bit, letting the frazzled agent know that Charlie is alright.

 

He pulls away entirely, Gareth DeVere letting the whore (friend, Eggsy. He’s your friend. Only friend right now.) before him slump to the floor. His movements are not just for show, despite the realities of their situation. Eggsy makes himself a well-earned drink (watered, Eggsy, you need your wits fool boy) and sits in one of the lovely chairs, cock still hanging out of his trousers, and not a care in the world. He knows that Merlin knows what’s just happened. Even if he weren’t still wearing his glasses, he planted Merlin’s surveillance bugs in much better locations than the obvious ones his partners did. Merlin has been almost entirely silent during his many months undercover, only breaking silence once or twice to verbally confirm the findings, and then the date of extraction and execution. So it’s a bit shocking when Eggsy hears the brogue in his ear.  
  
  
“ _Can he fire a gun in his condition?”  
_

Eggsy nudges Charlie with a loafer-clad foot (and here was Harry’s voice in his head, telling him what awful shoes they were, I mean look at that. Poor leather and bicycle toes? Tacky, Eggsy.) and motions to the bedroom. It is, thankfully, free of his shit partners’ bugs, though not Merlin’s. Gareth DeVere doesn’t know about the bugs in the living room, and Eggsy Unwin couldn’t care less about them. Charlie nods sullenly, though his eyes are alive in a way Eggsy hasn’t seen in months.

 

The bedroom is as lavish as the rest of the suite, and Eggsy all but slams the door behind him, blocking the last vestiges of any non-Kingsman recording from sight and sound. Charlie lounges on the bed, his legs crossed at the ankles, looking for all the world a shagged out lover instead of an abused slave.

 

Eggsy sighs and sits down on the end of the bed, casting off Gareth DeVere as easily as he slips out of the suit jacket and shirt he’s wearing. He’s in his vest and socks, and he doesn’t care. Charlie watches him, unconcerned for their dishabille, and when he catches Eggsy’s eye he glances into the corners as if asking a question.

 

“Just us. And Merlin.” Eggsy’s accent is rough from disuse, but it is all his. None of the posh RP he copied from Harry remains.

 

“Ah. Good.” Charlie flounders a bit after this, and Eggsy finally crawls up the bed to stretch out next to his former nemesis. He puts a palm in the center of Charlie’s chest and feels the heart beat there. Charlie slumps into the bed, his hand curled around Eggsy’s wrist with two fingers pressing against the pulse point there, and they remain there for what feels like hours, just listening to each other’s breaths and feeling the thump thump against skin.

 

“You could, if you want.” Charlie’s voice in the room isn’t unwelcome, and it’s not entirely unfamiliar. Nearly a year of close quarters hasn’t made them friends by any means, but they know each other’s orbit, even in such a state as now.

 

“Hm?” Eggsy makes a querying noise against Charlie’s ribs, where his head is tucked into the crook of Charlie’s arm, and his lips press small pecks into the ribs there every so often.

 

“Fuck me. If you want. I wouldn’t say no. I probably never would have said no, even then.”

 

“M’not gonna fuck you Charlie. I probably would have, then. But not now.”  
  
  
  
“Am I too dirty now?”  
  
  
  
Eggsy snorts and bites the other lightly.  
  
  
  
“No. You ain’t dirty Charlie. You just ain’t the only whore in the room, bruv.”  
  
  
  
They fall silent again for a spell, before Eggsy continues.

 

“This job. Ain’t like we thought it’d be. Maybe it’s cause everything got fucked up, but all I’ve done for the last, Christ. Nearly a year now. Anyway, all I’ve done is fucked and listened. None of the posh hand-to-hand spy shit, none of the jumping from planes and seducing pretty birds, none of it. Just been at the bottom of a bottle of booze that I don’t know nothing about to know if it’s good or not, and eating blues like candy to stay balls deep in whatever hole they fucking throw me, because my cover’s money’s good and they ain’t looking too close at his emails. Maybe that’s the job and Kingsman were too polite to sugar coat it, yeah? But I don’t remember any training saying you were gonna lose everything you knew about yourself and held sacred in order to preserve peace or anything like that. Like we’d know the fucking difference between being a gentleman and being fucking meat for the grinder, you’d think. Maybe that-” Eggsy doesn’t allow himself to finish.

 

“Maybe that’s why Hart took risks.” Charlie’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle. Sad, almost.

 

Eggsy’s throat hurts and his eyes burn, but nothing comes but a croak.

 

“Yeah. Took a risk on me. Took a hell of a risk trying to finish Lancelot’s mission, the old Lancelot I mean. Took a risk flying to Kentucky without no backup.”

 

“Did you love him?”

 

“No, well. Yeah, but it was more like I knew I  _could_ love him. It’d be fucking easy, wouldn’t it? What wasn’t there to love?”

 

“Plenty. Missed my birthday four years running between 10 and 14. Missed Eton. Missed Cambridge. Missed my public intox arrest. Merlin didn’t, soft bastard. Got me out without a trace, told me that James was gone and to sober up, ‘cause good old dad was going to finally put my name in. And you know? Hart didn’t say shit to me about it when he got back from the mission before we got recruited. Just told me this wasn’t my round to be picked, ‘ _sorry, son. Just hang on a few more years. I’ve found an excellent candidate that I think would be an asset.’_  Like he could shove me off the way he did my mum and I’d eventually stop complaining. Like he hadn’t been paying attention to me only when I did something Kingsman-worthy. Fucking Merlin put me up in our round you know. I mean, Chester is the one who’s name was on the papers and had to act it, but Merlin pulls the strings. Everyone knows it. But dad? Couldn’t give two shits about it. About me. Plenty not to love about that.”

 

Eggsy stares at Charlie for a long time, and sighs.

 

“No fucking wonder you hated me.”

 

Charlie laughs, something full throated and honest, before he coughs and winces.

 

“Fucking ribs. Took a boot couple of days ago. Apparently they don’t like it when you bite.”

 

“I wouldn’t. Want me to tape them?”

 

“No, not really. I think I’ll be able to get to a proper doctor soon enough.”

 

Charlie’s pointed drawl hadn’t changed any, at least. Eggsy could be grateful for that.

 

“Can you help or hinder? Tomorrow, that is.”

 

Charlie considers this carefully, already an improvement over his days as a candidate.

 

“I can help, but I’m not likely to move fast. If you’ve got a spare, let me have it. Otherwise, I’ll hunker down until the cavalry comes.”

 

Eggsy sniffs and nods, the tip of his nose rubbing against Charlie’s side. They go silent once more, any awkwardness long since abandoned.

 

“Sorry you were in love a dead man, Eggsy. Sorry he died on you.”

 

“Sorry your dad was shit. That’s not a fair cop, not even for you.”

 

Eggsy can feel Charlie’s smile without seeing it. It makes him smile in turn, and Charlie drops his arm around Eggsy’s back and hauls him up a bit to spoon more comfortably for the both of them. Eggsy breathes deeply into Charlie’s neck, smelling the clinical soap used by the guards and Charlie’s sweat. The heartbeat under his hand quickens after a pace, and Charlie turns his head to Eggsy’s and kisses him deeply. It’s not a romantic kiss, but it’s not just sexual. It’s an apology and a kiss and a question and an explanation all in one, and Eggsy tastes it for what it is. Charlie turns in bed, and Eggsy can feel his renewed length against the skin of his belly, slightly softer now that he isn’t starving or fleeing or constantly exercising. His own lies soft, but growing interested, against his thigh. They kiss for what surely must be hours, surfacing for air alone, and by the time Charlie finally pulls back, he’s got stubble burn on his chin and cheeks, sweat on his brow, and has left a sizable streak of slick all over Eggsy’s belly. Eggsy hasn’t been idle, rocking his hips and (unmedicated, finally) erection into the crease of Charlie’s thigh. Charlie lays on his back and reaches a hand to his cock, and strokes himself lazily as Eggsy straddles him and reaches for the bedside table. Charlie watches as eggsy opens himself up, rocking onto his fingers and gasping little shudders and whines when he grazes a nail over his prostate. Charlie grins as Eggsy hovers over him, asking with his eyes and his tense body if this is alright, and he pulls the spy down onto his shaft without preamble.

 

It is slow and sinuous. Charlie can’t move much without gasping in pain, so Eggsy does the work. He has never ridden a horse, but he’s ridden plenty of cocks, and his moves prove that knowledge. They fuck (make love, Eggsy. I don’t think hate-and-rage-and-shame-and-relief-fucking your archenemy-turned-sex slave can be anything other than making love, in it’s own twisted way) until the city lights begin to wink out as the skies lighten. Eggsy loses count of how many times he bathes Charlie with seed, he just knows that his legs and ass ache in the best way possible, and that the slippery slide of cock and fingers in and out of his body is making him feel more alive than he’s felt since before V-Day. Charlie is silent when he comes, just a small puff of exhalation that might be a name, and warmth filling him again and again until Eggsy doesn’t think he could stand to live without it.

 

When they finally untangle and disconnect from each other, they are filth embodied. It isn’t pretty, and Eggsy is certain he will regret losing sleep and leg muscle strain for this, but it’s the first night in many that he hasn’t drunk himself to sleep, or taken enough Viagra to fuck and elephant only to field a half-hard cock. Charlie is much the same, though Eggsy won’t (can’t, you coward) ask him how consensual this truly was. He’d like to pretend that this was just a lovely evening with a cherished lover, and he’ll be damned if that bubble pops for him a moment too soon. Eggsy rests against the body next to him, and though nearly asleep, Charlie slings an arm over his waist.

 

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Until then, get some sleep. I think you’ll need it.”

 

“Fuck off, Charlie,” says an sleepy Eggsy, though any heat it might have once held is long gone.

 

“Already did, pleb.”

 

And Eggsy smiles into Charlie’s shoulder again. Whatever happens next, whatever this day will bring them, this is enough.


	2. Chapter 2

It is late when the smoke clears. The city, like any other, is good at ignoring what her streets bear, so there is little in the way of police presence or onlooking gawkers to have watched the simultaneous infiltration of the warehouses full of sexual slaves and the apartments that house Gareth DeVere's partners. One dies in the shootout, a bullet of Roxy's that finds its way unerringly, and the other is collected by Kingsman's field agents for what they promise is a trial and sentencing, but is more likely a swift fall from a helicopter somewhere over the Channel. They have been judge, jury, and executioner these last several months, and the UN has allowed it with nary a whisper. They still have not yet regained control over their Peacekeepers, not with the US still under martial law and splintered battalions of military and pseudo militia roaming the streets, preventing any form of government that does not involve tithing and fiefdoms and Grand New Warlords of Duluth springing up everywhere.

 

So Kingsman has become the single parent in a world that needs a village worth of elders. Eggsy and Charlie do their part; Eggsy recalling why he hates being out of shape (fat useless sack of shit, Muggsy, only good on your knees ain't you) and almost envious of how Charlie has maintained some muscle mass despite his injuries and indignities. He follows Eggsy, shooting with a grace that Eggsy never noticed during training, and they link up with the task force easily. Eggsy allows Charlie the honor of shooting the grasping bastard who works the door, catching him mid grunt with his poor girl no longer even crying beneath him hulking mass. Eggsy grabs him by the hair and jerks him off and out of the girl, and watches with grim satisfaction as the man blubbers confusedly at "young Mr. DeVere, what's going on?" even as Charlie puts one in his skull from behind. They clean the girl as best they can with their limited time, and bring her with them. Charlie helps her, and they bundle her into Eggsy's ill-fitting jacket (not one of the bulletproof ones, Eggsy, she's expendable - _shut up Harry_ ) and into the helicopter that waits for them.

 

The battle is hardly a battle. The guards paid for by the bodies and souls of the slaves flee, their loyalty only to money. Most are caught, a few slip into the shadows of Vilnius. Eggsy pays them no mind. Rats flee sinking ships, but they are always caught by something bigger and meaner. He knows this better than most. The girl they have saved is given over to the medics as they regroup outside the city and they take Charlie with them to see what can be done about his ribs. The op is a success. Field agents have begun retrieving documents and computers, and Eggsy's intel has been their most valued commodity. The slaves are released from the warehouses, and those that can be reached in other nations are being rescued as able, according to the task force commander. Merlin is not present in person, but it is his touch in every movement and direction. Ten months apart from his family of choice cannot remove that knowledge from Eggsy's mind. Roxy is there, as is Percival. And when a dusty but powerful-looking Roxy tries to hug him, Eggsy puts her on the ground in a chokehold before he can realize what he's done. He lets her go, biting back a sob and retreating to a safe distance. She stares at him with concern from the grass, bruises already blooming against her neck, and (god help you Eggsy, you've ruined it now)  _pity in her eyes_ and Eggsy closes his eyes against the wretchedness that festers, threatening to spill out and infect everything it touches. Percival understands, for his eyes reflect nothing and his measured voice asking if Eggsy needs anything else before they depart is clinical and solid. It's a question Eggsy can focus on and he shakes his head in the negative. He is the first into the waiting jetliner, and he strips off the ill-fitting suit the moment his feet touch the plush carpeting. He walks nude, uncaring even as the jet's staff ogle his body (flabby and pale. How very British, Eggsy), and heads for the onboard head to shower and change. It is there that he breaks, just a bit, and sobs as the scalding water burns off the last vestiges of Gareth DeVere. It is here that Charlie finds him.

 

Eggsy feels a body against his, and he can smell the cheap shampoo from the apartment that Charlie used before they left. He relaxes for a moment, and leans back against the other man's chest. Charlie is as silent as he, and he holds Eggsy through the wracking shudders until the water runs chill and only the smallest sniffle can be heard. They dress in the Kingsman-branded sweatsuits that can be found in the cupboards, and they find seats near the back of the jet.

 

"Why are you with us?" Eggsy finally asks Charlie, no trace of hostility in his voice.

 

Charlie stays quiet for a bit before answering honestly, "Cause I knew you'd be a fucking wreck about this."

 

Eggsy snorts and nudges him with his shoulder. Charlie entwines their fingers, and squeezes them when the other Kingsman agents and staff begin embarking on the jet. Roxy gives Eggsy a small smile before settling on the opposite end of the jet, which simply makes Eggsy feel worse to think he's hurt his friend  (but were you  _really_? You barely knew the girl during training, Eggsy, and let's face it, you're not exactly her kind), and he sinks further into the buttery leather seat. Percival comes by, and wordlessly hands Eggsy a debriefing tablet and package, but Eggsy knows from training that nowhere in there is a page on "how to deal with the fact that you're half a person now" beyond a few sentences about Kingsman's psychiatric and psychological benefits (stretched thin already, Eggsy, give them a pass for now).

 

"How the fuck am I in worse shape than you, Charlie?"

 

"Because you're a little bitch about this stuff. No, hear me out. It's not a bad thing. You spent what, 20 years in that shithole of an estate? Then you get whisked away by some dashing romantic hero to do the impossible and become a debonair super spy, and then somewhere along the way the world fucking upended. So now instead of drinking martinis and seducing beautiful men and women out of their secrets, you get sent to nowhere and told to 'fix it' without any guidance on how the actual fuck you're supposed to do that, so you muddle through with the best knowledge a boy from the estates can put together: cocks out and ears open. It works, but it reminds you too much of the reality of the situation, which is that there's no jet setting, sexy side to this job. It's all fucking guns and guts and grunting sweaty assholes in dark alleys, all to get another name to track down another grunting sweaty asshole and so on. Most of us who went through training knew about Kingsman. We're all legacies, even butter-wouldn't-melt perfect Lancelot over there. So we all had some idea of the kind of shit that you go through with this. You're not. You didn't get the same education in PTSD and espionage that we did. I mean, you got an entirely different kind of education about it, and it's absolutely got its merits and benefits, but it doesn't exactly give you any insight into this life."

 

Charlie goes silent for a bit, and Eggsy sees Percival nod thoughtfully about some of what Charlie has said. Roxy sits too far to hear any of it, but Eggsy wonders if she feels the same way.

 

"You know when they tied us to the tracks? I failed on purpose," says Charlie out of the blue. "I'd seen it through so far the I figured I couldn't possibly back out, but I laid there thinking, 'is this really what I want? All this fucking lying and misery?' Dad wasn't exactly a fucking role model about openness, and he'd already made it pretty clear that he was washing his hands of me, so I said 'fuck it.' Best and worst decision of my life. If V-Day hadn't happened, I'd still be somewhere backpacking through Europe. It was a nice thought anyway. I'd arrived in Prague about two hours before the signal, so I was in a pretty metro area. Woke up somewhere in Belarus? Not exactly sure. Honestly, I thought it was another Kingsman test. Treated it like one up until I realized the world had gone to shit somehow. Spent the last ten months trying to keep out of sight and out of mind. Apparently swotty, mouthy white boys tend to get noticed in the sex trade, so I didn't have to start any of that until last month. Tried escaping. Got caught. Honestly, compared to the shit some of the other sweet through, I'm positively spoiled. Compartmentalization, I suppose. I'm certain I'll lose my mind in a month or so, but for now I'm just keeping my upper lip stiff."

 

"So what now?"

 

"Now we go home and fucking muddle through. I suppose dad's house hasn't been sold. They tend to keep those things 'in the family' so to speak."

 

"Would you come back?" Percival's voice is even and measured. Both Eggsy and Charlie look to him. "To Kingsman? We're quite at odds without enough agents and techs. You'd be more than valuable."

 

"No idea. Not even sure I want to stay in London," says Charlie.

 

"Well, if you decide to stay, we can arrange it however you like."

 

"Thanks, Percival."

 

"And you, Eggsy? Will you be remaining with the organization? I'm well aware this was a bit of a doozy for a first solo mission."

 

Eggsy stares through Percival mutely, and the silence in the cabin of the jet becomes unbearable in the seconds that follow. Eggsy can't even feel enough to be angry at Percival, or for the situation, or any of it. All he feels is empty.

 

"Ah. Well, we'll see how we all feel after some time to think, shall we?" Percival never stops being even and measured, and Eggsy can't tell if it's how the man really is, or whether he's got the best poker face on the planet. Either way, Percival rises and takes a seat near the front, leaving Eggsy and Charlie to watch him sit and take up a newspaper to read. Charlie finally huffs and lays his head on Eggsy's shoulder. Their fingers have remained twined, and Eggsy doesn't dwell too long on it, afraid that whatever comfort he finds will be taken away when Charlie remembers that they're supposed to hate each other, or whatever else trivial nonsense will destroy the last bit of human connection Eggsy feels anymore (and boy do you fucking deserve it Muggsy).

 

"Do you have anywhere to go?"

 

Eggsy shakes his head no and answers softly, "No. Not really. I only saw mum a few times before I left on mission." Eggsy snorts a dry laugh.

 

"What's so funny, Eggy?"

 

"My mum and little sis are in your house. Merlin said I could put them up there after everything."

 

"Ah. Well who am I to turn out your mum and sister. I've got my mum's place in Chelsea anyway. We'll go there."

 

"We?"

 

"Eggy, you're half a breakdown away from killing yourself to feel something and I'm sure to crack up any day. I figure between us there's half a responsible adult. Seems like enough to be going on with, hm?"

 

Eggsy stares at Charlie, and smiles.

 

"You know you're more like him that you want to admit."

 

Charlie sighs and nods solemnly. 

 

"So I've been told. You're not gonna transfer your weird pseudo-daddy love onto me, are you? I can handle the misguided but acrobatic sex. It's the feelings bit... no thank you."

 

"Never say never, posh wanker." With this pronouncement, Eggsy waggles his eyebrows at the darker man, causing them to both giggle freer than they have felt in months.

 

"Did you know he had exceptionally poor taste in music? Absolutely abysmal," Charlie says, after a fashion.

 

"No he did not. What was it? Rap? Russian lullabies?"

 

"American country western. Awful shite. I think he started listening to it to spite Merlin when they were trainees. Maybe to spite grandfather. Who knows. But God, was it awful."

 

"What say we get drunk and listen to it when we get home? Good start to losing our minds in solidarity with each other."

 

"Sounds like a plan."

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I can be found at awesomehartwintrash.tumblr.com


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